Eighteen

Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and…Wednesday—and nothing from Riley. Ben had sent two texts—How R U? and How was the game?—over the past four days but both messages had gone unanswered, and she still hadn’t accepted his Facebook friend request. Popping a chunk of a black-and-white cookie—a New York City staple—into his mouth, he stopped in the shade of an abandoned doorway on MacDougal Street, shoved up the long sleeves of his blue t-shirt, and slowly typed out another text.

Got 2 job leads 2day. Wish me luck.

Wiping perspiration from his forehead, he continued on his way, greeting the unseasonably hot April day with an optimistic grin. She’ll be chuffed for me. He dawdled through Greenwich Village, glancing down at his phone every few blocks, but his latest message ended up like the others: ignored and relegated to text purgatory. His smile slowly evaporated as a nagging hollowness wrenched his gut. She owes you nothing, Ben. Why would she answer you right away—if at all? You’re setting yourself up for disappointment like every other time—you know that, right? FUCK! He took a deep breath. But…Riley’s different…

Careening around strolling tourists, Ben wanted answers, refusing to believe he and Riley hadn’t forged a friendly connection, refusing to believe she was ghosting him, that he wasn’t someone she cared about even a tiny bit. Maybe something happened? Maybe her Josh bloke got injured? Head down, forcing pedestrians to swerve around him, he typed slowly, but his spelling mistakes riddled the Google search bar. He jabbed the delete key, his frustration growing with each erased letter. Several tries later, ‘ice hokcey championship’, ‘winner’, and ‘Josh’ filled the bar. He hit go and slammed face-first into a rock-hard shoulder.

Shit! Ben spun 180 degrees on impact and his phone flew from his hand, clattering on the pavement. He winced, clutching his nose. “Fuuuuuccck!”

His victim, who could have passed for an Olympic weight lifter, didn’t budge an inch, and neither did the steel dolly he was pushing, stacked high with heavy boxes of beer destined for the pizzeria behind them. Ear-splitting rap leaked from his massive headphones. The mountain of a man glared at Ben, clearly annoyed.

SHIT! This stonking bloke could snap me in half. “Sorry, mate. My fault…wasn’t looking where I was…” Eyes watering, Ben’s hand dropped from his nose. A streak of bright red blood coated his fingers, derailing his apology and leaving him speechless, shuffling backward in a daze.

“Hey!” The delivery guy let go of the dolly and lunged, grabbing a fistful of Ben’s t-shirt, yanking him too close for comfort.

Ben flinched, lifting his hands to protect his face. “I’m sorry, okay?!” Fucking hell, he’s gonna hit me! He held his breath and squinted, dipping his shoulder and twisting away so his throbbing nose was almost out of reach. He did a double take over his shoulder, his jaw falling slack. Only a few inches behind him, two metal hatch doors reached skyward, exposing a square hole in the sidewalk and a bone-breaking drop. Steep cement stairs led downward to the restaurant’s storage cellar, cluttered with sealed boxes and bins of shattered glass bottles. Oh…my God!

“Jeezus guy, watch where ya walkin’!” The man’s Bronx accent fought with Drake, still spilling from his headphones. He swept Ben to a safe corner of sidewalk and released his shirt, which was now stretched at the neck and speckled with red droplets.

Ben let a breath go and a searing jolt of pain exploded through his nose. Jesus! His watery eyes surveyed the drop zone. “Hey, thanks, mate. You saved me—”

“Tourists!” With a hairy wrist, the hulk mopped sweat from his unibrow and shook his head, seeking agreement from the cluster of people stopping to gawk. “This time, a broken beak. Next time, a broken neck—or worse, ya hands.” He snorted, playing to his audience. “How the hell would ya walk and text then, huh?” Onlookers, including several tall, willowy women laughed, earning a crooked smile from Ben’s sweaty guardian angel.

Everyone’s a comedian. Cheeks burning red, Ben dabbed his bleeding nose with the back of his hand. “Cheers, mate.” As if I didn’t already feel like a total pillock.

“No sweat.” Show over, the guy leaned on the dolly’s handles and wheeled its cargo closer to the opening in the sidewalk.

Two attractive twenty-something women carrying modeling portfolios stepped forward, one handing Ben his phone and several tissues. “Aw! Poor you, are you okay?”

Would you two fancy nursing me back to health? A slight smile fought through his pain. “Hi.”

“Eww, it’s swelling!” The woman winced to her equally gorgeous friend. “A doctor might need to reset it. There’s a hospital about fifteen—”

Hospital? He made a sour face. “No, it’s fine, really. Cheers for the tissues.” He plunged his nose into the Kleenex and escaped their scrutiny, rushing past Mediterranean and vegan restaurants toward Bleecker Street. Turning the corner, he headed east, his nose throbbing harder with each quickened step and pound of his heart. He carefully steered clear of the various metal hatches—open or closed—along the gum-stained sidewalk.

A few blocks later, an oasis in the April heat stood proud on a corner—The Red Lion pub. Ben slipped inside, craving a beer, air conditioning, and somewhere to clean up. He immediately felt at home. His favorite soccer team, Tottenham Hotspur, was playing Manchester United on the numerous flat screens, and a red telephone box stood guard in the corner. Familiar names: Boddingtons, Newcastle Brown Ale, Strongbow—imported beers and ciders—called out from a framed board behind the bar. He removed the stained tissue from his nose and fled to the men’s room, its mirror confirming what he’d suspected—he looked a bloody mess. Washing away the dried blood, he prayed his swollen nose wasn’t broken. Brilliant. How’s this going to look at job interviews?

Back at the bar, he ordered a Smithwick’s and scowled at his shattered phone. New cracks joined old fractures zigzagging across its screen. He carefully opened the browser and selected the top search result, still waiting post-crash.

NCAA Men’s Ice Hockey Final: North Dakota Fighting Hawks 3, Boston University 2. Winning goal scorer, Josh King…

Her fella wasn’t hurt; he was the hero.

The rest of the article began to dissolve into a jumble of half-formed letters, so Ben abandoned it, selecting the images tab instead. I bet Riley stayed in Saint Paul longer to celebrate. Makes sense.

Photos of the players celebrating on and off the ice slid underneath Ben’s fingers as he searched for Riley in the crowd or by Josh’s side. Nope. He opened a YouTube video of the previous day’s standing-room-only homecoming in their college rink. Riley’s fiancé, all muscle and brimming with confidence, wearing the team’s distinctive Kelly green and white hockey jersey, was front and center—the team captain, the game-winning goal scorer, adored by everyone. He took to the microphone and made a speech like he was born for it, thanking the coaches, team staff, and “the best fans in college hockey, as well as our families, who’ve always been there to drive us to practice at the crack of dawn. This celebration is for you, too!” Cheers rose from the crowd and the UND band’s trumpets, tubas, and trombones erupted into an annoying tune Ben didn’t recognize.

Mystery over, then. This is why she didn’t text back. She has HIM. What could you offer her? His stomach pinched. You’re kidding yourself if you think she’d ever be interested in you in that way, Fagan. Josh is somebody. You? Nobody.

He took a long swig of beer and stared at the football match on the screen, the ache in his nose morphing into a full-on headache. His phone buzzed on the bar—a text from Piper.

Hey! Wanna go out Friday night?